I got an email from a Swedish girl telling me that I got the Swedish wrong in a fic, and it was wrong, but it was a typo not that I screwed it up, hehe, and... I'm uncomfortable that people from other countries are reading my fics! I do a lot of like, complete BS because I'm lazy and like, these places are better the way I imagine them anyway, heh heh. I already had a Czech person email me before.

Someone from Magnitogorsk is going to scream at me, eventually. :P

There's an awesome quote from this article about Parker:``I was trying to play hockey and you've got this little 4-foot-2 guy'' -- a reference to Tootoo, who is 5-foot-8 -- ``trying to do figure-eights around me. I was like, `Hey, this is my space. Get away from me.' ''

I have to admit, I got weepy when Preissing said "we have the best fans in the league and I really mean it" tonight. He's just such a down-to-earth guy that it meant more coming from him, somehow. :)

Midway through Rangers game, and already a Petr post-goal celebratory crotch adjustment! *happy* And just so I can say it one more time, here's the...

Petr Sykora crotch shot of the day!Look! He's looking down to make sure it's still there and stuff.

Oh, I like Preissing. I have such a strange attachment to him just because I chose him out of your guys' roster to write about. Anytime he's on tv I gush about him to my roommate. I haven't told my roommate why, of course.

I'm always a little afraid that someone from Pitea is gonna read a CS fic and then tell him. He will be horrified that I'm talking about his daughter. So far mostly just Southern Sweden. We start heading north and I'm really gonna freak.

let's see if this comment box is large enough

Only he’d be dumb enough, young enough to get drunk off of eggnog. I mean, that was the point, all the guys who couldn’t get home for Christmas and back again in time for the Kings, spent the day with each other getting sloshed, invited over to Scott’s house because he was the oldest, most fatherly like and his wife made damn good cookies. Holiday tradition for the adults to get drunk at the Christmas party, though he didn’t feel very adult, having not gone home because he felt lame showing up without a girlfriend. He felt old, though, and tired—for once in his life time was passing too quickly and he couldn’t believe they were already so many games in, and he kept wanting to say, “slow down,” and “stop,” which made his mind smirk, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever said such things.

Always more more more, and in this euphoric eggnogged state, he was aware of how greedy and childish he was sometimes: faster, faster, don’t stop, keep going, I’d like a Stanley Cup, please. But, his mind argued, it’s not as if he said he wouldn’t work for it. Just a wish for bliss, three times, for the team website to put under his profile. So, really, that made him quite adult: this knowledge, this effort, this desire to at least work for it.

He was used to this feeling—a memory from his rookie year, the feeling that he was old, so old, he’d figured out his life, who he was, who he’d be, but then suddenly he didn’t know shit—he was a rookie, no matter his age. A paradox: feeling old and young all at the same time. And then Todd made sure the absurdity of it all persisted, and Tom marveled at how Todd could make him feel so dumb, so smart, so scared, so fearless, so inexperienced, so like he’d been doing this his whole life, like this was all he’d been made to do, so like this had to stop or he’d die, so like this could never stop or he wouldn’t be living. So young and naïve for thinking that distance wouldn’t matter, and so old and knowledgeable about Todd and his life before, and how well long distance had worked with Matt.

Secret Santa gift exchange, and someone finally bothered him, poking his shoulder until he stopped being amused by his hands and how his fingers could move and bend seemingly of their own volition. He was handed a box, and managed to mumble something to Niko about a brown grocery bag under the tree stapled shut with a Play Station game inside it, finishing off the garbled directions with, “Merry Kissmiss, man.” Twenty dollars spent at Best Buy, so he was pissed when he found a Christmas sweater inside his box. “What the fuck?” he said so slowly that everyone began to laugh, and before he could make a fist and shake it at them to show his disdain, the two Thorntons were pulling the damn thing over his head, wool scratching his face, almost suffocating him for a moment.

If he could think, he would have plotted his revenge, but instead he just sat there, almost complacent, petting the reindeer on his stomach. He was lucky that answering a vibrating cell phone was more Pavlonian than actual cognition, or he might never have answered it at all. He did though, and it was the voice in his ear that reduced him to five years old—giddy and happy and so in love with Christmas. Five years old and it wasn’t the eggnog which made him slow or the mom with the awesome cookies or his lame excuse not to go home or even the old school sweater that made him feel so young.

It was Todd and “Merry Christmas,” and “I love you,” and five years old again, Tom was willing to believe in anything, especially in the magic of Christmas.

Re: let's see if this comment box is large enough

I kind of have that impression of him. Like as a person he's all down-to-earth, and pretty sane and unperturbed and stuff, and even when he's playing he's solid and not flaky and stuff, but at the same time he has so little NHL experience!

And OMG drunkness and Thorntons making him wear reindeer sweater and... *sighs*